


Dove and Tiger

by oblivioluna



Category: Purple Hyacinth (Webcomic), Purple Hyacinth - Ephemerys & Sophism (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, F/M, i wish all lauki stans a very pleasant evening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:07:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27499891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oblivioluna/pseuds/oblivioluna
Summary: “They say the Purple Hyacinth is a crude beast,” drawls the knight, red hair a flame in the bright daylight. “Wherever he goes, plants wither and die. Terrorizes Ardhalis’s cattle and sheep. Look into his eyes, the color of stained heather, and you will be rooted to the spot and frozen forevermore.”“Really, now?” drawls the man in front of her. As he balances on the top of the willow, the branches coyly wave their leaves in front of his face, dancing shadows around his impossibly beautiful face. Beautiful in the way that a knife fascinates a heart before it aims true, beautiful in the way a storm roars through the sky before rain comes tumbling down onto pewter and land. She never knew it was possible for a set of eyes to burn, not with the hue they are - bold and bright turquoise, lined with only an emblem of gold. What gives his inhumanness away is only the sharp point of his ears at the tips. “They exaggerate. Do I not look like only a man to you, dear knight?”“You’re not human,” Lauren says, smiling thinly as she raises a small, ornate knife in her right hand. “And I am very good at hunting things that are not human.”
Relationships: Lauren Sinclair/Kieran White, William Hawkes/Kym Ladell (minor)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 62





	Dove and Tiger

**Author's Note:**

> The theme for this fic, if you wish to immerse yourself a little more, is the Howl's Moving Castle theme.

Ardhalis is in shambles, and the royals are ten seconds away from throwing a temper tantrum.

The latter half of which Lauren can’t bother to deal with right now, and the former half just so happens to be her problem. It’s a rather unfortunate problem, but this is the life she signed up for. It’s very hard to forget how you signed your life away to a court of liars and brutal nobles when they parade around the war room like headless cows, moaning about the current political situation and domestic situation that hasn’t improved in decades, only worsened. The smell of ale only gets stronger as one of the court servants nudges her way through shouting royals, lit up by chandelier light in jewels and fabrics and beaded thread that seem to mark them as a different species entirely; so terribly opposite-looking from the lower class peasants that have to dig their horse carts through mud during the rainy days.

“For you, Sir.”

There hasn’t been a female knight in decades, and so Lauren responds to the title kindly as a servant hands her a mug of the bitter amber liquid. It sedates the worst of her temper as Stefan Hawkes’s voice grows louder, the mug momentarily obscuring her view of a wide, oblong table wherein the country’s top generals are gathered at the moment as well amongst the royals. 

“We’re already facing naval blockades from Lir. I’d sooner have a changeling in place of my son that concentrate on Ardhalis’s little quabbles with its fairy population.”

“You wish to talk of little quarrels? Tumult with the Fair Folk can hardly be considered bad omen for this country. You don’t have a right, Hawkes,” roars Dakan Rhysmel, “when you’ve been overseas for months now. Hardly paying any attention to the remaining of your two sons, one of whom is - may I remind you - under _our roof?”_

“--This isn’t the time to concentrate on mind games when we could be facing international issues--”

_“ORDER!”_

Philip Aevasther’s voice rings throughout the room like a bell. Lizbeth is stoic beside him, and crooks one finger her way. The command is clear: _come hither._ But it doesn’t stop the bitter taste worsening in the back of her throat as she detaches herself from the iron chair on the sidelines, metal breastplate still stained with dirt as it becomes a beacon of light within the hall, all eyes suddenly falling on the formerly silent woman now heading the High Queen’s way.

It’s always been that way, though. _Come and bow at our feet. Our sword, our shield. Ardhalis’s shield._ The murmurings start like they always do, namely coming from the nobles and generals that have never set eyes on her before: a knight weaving her way through the crowd like water, scarlet hair scraped into a bun, doing nothing to conceal a glimmering set of gold eyes and armor colored silver, taut around her body, elaborately slung around her person - with a dark belt and sword to match at her hip. But people always notice the way the back of her breastplate forms a set of stripes, how her gauntlets are almost like claws in the way they curve over her knuckles.

_Tiger’s Bane._

Fiercer than any wild predator, twice as strong as any. The Aevasther’s loyal knight, talented in all she does.

“You called, Your Majesty,” Lauren intones, voice a bit raspy. “You require me.”

“Hawkes will not agree to send his ground forces to confront the Folk,” Lizbeth says quietly, head held high. Her queen has never been one for pleasantries, nor kindness. Anyone looking for warmth in Lizbeth Aevasther would find a crown of briars valuable jewels. “Our ambassador from Seelie has vanished as well. We suspect the Folk know not of the beast’s presence.”

“To be fair, Your Majesty, Harvey Wood could have sooner made deals with bricks than talk down the king.”

“Which is why Philip and I have agreed to send you along.” Lizbeth looks at her with nothing short of an ambivalent glance, almost as if she were surveying how well a certain piece of fruit would sell at a farmer’s market. “You would receive twice the pay you normally receive for hunting down the Purple Hyacinth - and killing him.”

Her hand tightens around her sword hilt.

“I apologize, Your Majesty, but to antagonize the fae would not be in our best interest.”

“The Hyacinth is not one of theirs,” she says sharply. “It is clear that he is a rogue with no alignment to any court. Spreading terror and death wherever he goes. Just last month he slaughtered an entire field of cattle. And this month alone he managed to get through the castle’s defenses and nearly kill the nobles in the courtyard before withering all the plants on sight.”

No one knows what the Purple Hyacinth is, really. And it’s a tad bit ironic, the name and all - the faerie that seems to kill everything from plants to animals to humans who cross the lands - only leaves behind a flower in his wake. In a field of dead crops, one hyacinth could be among the withered barley stems. 

She has tracked down many monsters. She has tracked down more creatures than any man could name - _dullahan,_ kelpies, puca, water bulls. She once talked down a naiad from overflowing Ardhalis’s sacred lakes. She once slayed a sarkany and took the scales as proof to the Aevasthers.

But this - this is far different than anything she’s ever handled.

She doesn’t know what she’s handling.

And after this, perhaps she could refuse another slaughter. Ardhalis rots from the inside, from problems that no creature could manufacture; only from injustice done by humankind itself. Somewhere along the line, the Tiger’s Bane has to decide how she must use her claws.

But that’s not today.

“At ease, Your Majesties,” she says, and this time, her voice echoes throughout the hall. She kneels to Philip and Lizbeth both. The generals and nobles fall silent. “I will rid this country of the Hyacinth once and for all.”

____

“Beauty, ain’t she?” Kym whistles. _“Jia!”_

The falconeer raises her hand in the air. In a grand tousle of gold and brown plumage, the female falcon swoops down, perching on her gloved hand. Lauren inspects the bird in her hands, now responding in kind to Kym’s scratches underneath her thick beak. “How old is she?”

“Two years, relatively young.” Sapphire hair falls over her brow as she unclips a small scroll from her leather uniform, the hyacinth insignia of the Aevasthers disappearing for only a second as she hands the knight a scroll of paper. “You could use her if you wanted to. And your uncle sent you a message from the outskirts.”

She pulls the paper open. “I’d sooner pluck snowdrops in midwinter than use one of your birds. Besides, Jia is your kin.”

“Ah, well, she’s...attached to me. Fair.”

“He wants to know if I can spare a visit,” she says, scanning the letter briefly, unsheathing a quill from one of the nearby stocks. The rest of Kym’s birds fly around the area, some still residing in the stone maze of brickwork that makes up the falconeering area. “Have you heard any rumors of where the Hyacinth might be?”

“Nothing except the worser part of the willow forests, and that’s where the meaner fae are,” Kym recalls, shuddering. “Don’t tell me you’re going to go charging in there with iron weapons, Tiger.”

Lauren smiles darkly, shrugging as she puts on the last of her heavier armor - broad shoulder plates and protective gauntlets made of silver and iron, slipping on rowan berries beneath the necklace of ash wood she wears. She waves a gloved hand at Kym - fingerless, with metallic claws now tipped with iron metal as well. “All of them. You know me.”

“I really do like you, but you’ve got the foresight of a rather clumsy crow.” She squeezes the knight’s hand. “And...please stop carrying around that sword without a halter. Adila doesn’t do well with knights.”

“Your fellow falconeer?”

“One of many.” She looks to the distance, squinting as the sun illuminates a blonde head of hair, beaming as he comes closer. “It looks like I have another visitor.”

“Got it. I’ll be going then, so you can bother this kingdom’s local general into popping another vein.”

**“A plague on all your houses, Sinclair,”** she drawls, waving as Lauren snaps the reins on her white horse, the stallion shooting into the distance, beyond the castle gates.

____

  
  


Armande doesn’t seem to be taking the forest well at all. 

Which is odd, because she and the stallion have faced down many trials and tribulations. He’s the one companion she can rely on for anything. She’s never been that good with others outside of court; mainly due to her fearsome and honored reputation as the Tiger’s Bane. Most of the time, they don’t know whether or not to kiss her or to kill her.

In recent times, the latter option seems more likely. 

The forest around her is bright, not at all fearsome. But she knows better; evil operates in broad daylight as easily as it would a darkened wood, fog curling around the edges with an owl’s cries as the backdrop for something sinister. Here, nothing sounds, save for the crunch of leaves beneath Armande’s hooves. He bucks his head slightly as Lauren passes a large oak. 

“Peace, now,” she murmurs, stroking his mane. “What has you bothered?”

A flapping of wings sounds above, and Lauren’s hand flies to her sword - but the only thing that appears on the branches of the tree next to her is a crow. It whistles a high note, and that’s when her grip loosens. It’s not a crow - it’s a dove, an ebony-colored one, like purest night.

“Ah.” She’s heard tales of these creatures. Rare as anything. “Aren’t you an odd sight around here. I could use some peace.”

It’s as if the dove has understood her. Instantly, it draws closer to the nearest branch, a branch low-hanging enough for her to tip her hands up and receive the bird on her palm. It tilts its head, cooing a bit. The coloring on its plumage is sleek black, darker than anything she’s ever seen, with tints of blue on its wings. 

“They say an omen like a crow is death around these parts,” she whispers, like a secret to the dove, “but an omen like you is a well-wisher’s fortune. And a kiss from a dove--” she draws the bird closer, “--is honey-sweet.”

She kisses the bird on the nose of its beak as her knife aims for its little heart. 

In her arms, the dove nips at her mouth as it whirls into a fury, transforming before her eyes. Armande rears, neighing loudly as she brings the man down with her onto the ground, both of them struggling, grasping at each other as their lips collide together, a low, harsh laugh escaping from his mouth above her as he shifts his hands from hers down to her wrists, burnt from the iron on her armor. 

Lauren expected the Purple Hyacinth to taste like death.

Lauren did not expect him to taste like spring and all things alive.

Her knife clatters onto foliage as she attempts to ram his head into the ground, but he vanishes mid-air. She stumbles back as he reappears on the side of the tree, sneering down at her.

“A maiden after my own heart?” he purrs. “I haven't had one of those in a while, darling.”

_“Cachiad,”_ Lauren curses, spitting out the taste of flowers. “Get down here.”

“No, I don’t think I will. What is a girl like you wandering around here and kissing birds?”

“You’re clearly not one,” she tosses back. “The veil does not fool me. Neither do any charms. The glamour you’re using in your voice right now I am immune to.”

“How unfortunate.” A loose shirt and pants only lend to the ethereal air yet deadliness he carries. “You know what I am, then? Changeling? Another?”

“They say the Purple Hyacinth is a crude beast,” drawls the knight, red hair a flame in the bright daylight. “Wherever he goes, plants wither and die. Terrorizes Ardhalis’s cattle and sheep. Look into his eyes, the color of stained heather, and you will be rooted to the spot and frozen forevermore.”

“Really, now?” drawls the man in front of her. As he balances on the top of the willow, the branches coyly wave their leaves in front of his face, dancing shadows around his impossibly beautiful face. Beautiful in the way that a knife fascinates a heart before it aims true, beautiful in the way a storm roars through the sky before rain comes tumbling down onto pewter and land. She never knew it was possible for a set of eyes to burn, not with the hue they are - bold and bright turquoise, lined with only an emblem of gold. What gives his inhumanness away is only the sharp point of his ears at the tips. “They exaggerate. Do I not look like only a man to you, dear knight?”

“You’re not human,” Lauren says, smiling thinly as she raises a small, ornate knife in her right hand. “And I am very good at hunting things that are not human.”

The faerie’s smirk only grows wider. “I would expect nothing less from the Tiger’s Bane.”

“If you do not mind, then,” she snarls, unsheathing her sword, “I will have your heart.”

He sighs. “Unfortunately, the law of the wood requires that whoever crosses a sacred spirit in these grounds - namely a human - will face the wrath of the forest.”

Sacred spirit. The cogs in her head turn - this fae is a shapeshifter, an elemental, clearly bound to something. But the Hyacinth kills and wilts; he doesn't bring life. And yet, this entire situation is odd. But no matter.

**“Terribly sorry, then,”** she says blithely, swinging herself over Armande again as he begins shifting again. It is not the dove this time - a panther now resides in her view, snarling with its jaws open. She doesn’t back down as it charges towards her - and skids to a halt, claws unearthing the ground.

“Don’t like that, do you?” Lauren scowls as it backs away, growling. The rowan berries she’d thrown on the ground, mixed in salt, create a barrier between her and the animal. “Want more?” She wiggles her clawed fingers at him. 

The panther hisses - and then stops. It’s realized too late that a chain of iron has long made its way around its neck, winding tighter and tighter. One of her uncle’s inventions.

The knight watches with dark pleasure as the wildcat crashes to the ground, unconscious, as it slowly morphs back into the dark-haired fae, now with a glittering silver-colored choker around his neck.

____

She’s halfway down the road near Candor Brook when he awakens.

Lauren pays no heed to how loud he yells, voice an almost inhuman pitch as he protests being dragged on the ground, arms and feet bound by a rope attached to Armande’s saddle. 

_“Ystyriwch eich diwedd, marwol! Derbyn gras heb derfynau,”_ he spits her way, eyes dark with hatred. _“Gewf--”_

“You cannot inflict a geas on me.” Lauren’s eyes are cold as she looks down on her prisoner. “I suppose I could’ve killed you, but you’re much more entertaining alive.”

“The royals want my head. I don’t think they’re going to be pleased with what you’re bringing back, _cariad.”_ He futilely tries to struggle out of the ropes - they only weave themselves tighter around the fae’s body. It’s astonishing how something so beautiful, with a mouth like the last remnant of sunset, could be so arrogant and deceitful, much less taste like honey wine in the evening all at once. “You mortals are all the same. You bring back a beast and think it will solve all your problems. The problem isn’t me. It’s the--”

“You’re not the problem when you kill our land? Our people?” exclaims Lauren, halting the stallion, causing the fae to fall onto the ground. But when she lands on her feet, grabbing at his collar, he smiles through the dirt smeared on his face. “You think _you’re_ not the problem when you’ve done nothing but be a blight on our country? I’m not just bringing you back so that the royals can be done with you. I’m ending you and your kin’s reign of terror once and for all.”

The fae’s mouth turns into a low scowl at the mention of kin. _Rogue,_ Lizbeth had called him. “Where to, then? Your torture chamber, knight?”

She rolls her eyes as she yanks the ropes tighter. “A little family visit.”

____

  
  


She takes Armande to the stables first - brushes him dry and gets him fed. The fae she takes by the wrists and practically drags him to the front of Tristan Sinclair’s cottage in the woods - he’d taken sanctuary here ever since cutting ties with the Aevasthers and the royal court. Lauren hadn’t wanted to follow the healer down into the outskirts, and had stayed for the majority of her time in the capital, climbing the ranks of her knighthood, befriending William Hawkes along the way; now more known around the castle grounds as Kym’s most frequent visitor.

He opens the door, half-moon spectacles like waning orbs in firelight, and raises his arms in joy at the sight of his niece. “You’re back! With...a guest?”

“‘Lo,” the fae at her mercy says, waving his fingers. “Ah. You must be…”

“Nice try,” Lauren says, tugging his collar. “I’m not giving you any of our names. I know what your kind do with those.”

“Laur - _Ren_ , really, you shouldn’t treat your companion like that so.” Sometimes she wishes her uncle wasn’t a fae sympathizer. “I’ve put wards around the cottage. Come in.”

“Uncle!” she erupts, furious. “This fae - he’s--”

“Finally, a polite mortal!” he says, an impish grin on his face, clearly delighting in Lauren’s frustration. “I’m terribly sorry, but your niece was rather impolite to me on the way here, sir. Would you mind undoing these ropes? And this collar,” he says, gesturing to his throat. “Marvelous invention, by the way. Won’t allow me to shift at all.”

“You remove that collar and I stuff you into a birdcage,” she threatens, but Tristan’s already walking forward, the billowy sleeves of his shirt waving in a wind that suddenly comes out of nowhere. He taps the ropes around the fae’s wrists and chest. 

_“Fai deliure,”_ he recites, in the language of their house, and the ropes melt away into nothing. A scent arises from the remnants of the bindings - something like smoked wood and pine needles. “Although, Ren, you could’ve just used the cantrip yourself.”

“Occitane was never for me.” She taps the Aevasther insignia on her sword. “Lost that connection to magic years ago.”

“Ren,” the fae repeats smoothly, and when he looks at her next, it’s like looking into the sun, blinding and dangerous.

“I have more names than that, but I’ll give you none of those.” She tilts her head. “In. I’ve business to attend to.”

_____

  
  


He’s watching her. It doesn’t make her nervous - she’s watching him just as much as he’s doing so to her. Lauren can’t possibly where her formal gear all the time, and now she’s left crouching on a low loveseat, dressed in all-black underclothing, hair in a neat braid. The cottage is a beacon of light in an otherwise wintry forest, and the interior is no different - all warm amber and gold, dried herbs and plants hanging around the rafters, a fireplace going constantly in the hearth, with Tristan’s study and workshop in the back, filled with jars and liquids within potion bottles she dares not touch. 

Her distaste for magic runs somewhat due to her parents’ untimely deaths, but she’s certainly not going to reveal that to her prisoner.

It doesn’t mean he’s left his guard down, though. There are still plenty of tricks the Folk use. 

“Ren,” Tristan calls from the kitchen, waving a spatula. “Assistance?”

“As long as I don’t actually have to touch the stove,” she says, shooting a glare at the fae still perched on the seat opposite from here as she leaves. When she’s safely behind the dark embrace of shadows, she whispers to her uncle. “Listen, you’re not aware of the - the _monster_ in our presence--”

“I’m absolutely aware, Lauren.” He meets her head-on. “Believe me, I’ve done my research into the Hyacinth’s doings. He seems to be some sort of lost nature spirit, perhaps cursed to inflict blight in place of growth.”

“Be that as it may, it does not excuse his horrid doings in the slightest--!”

“I’m afraid that explanation has to come at another time.” Her uncle sighs as he wipes his hand free of the rosemary bread dough he’d been kneading. “Rumors are the Unseelie and Seelie Courts will wage war on Ardhalis soon enough. And the Aevasthers are ignoring it due to...other issues,” he says, grimacing. “The monarchy was never quite the most attentive to the people.”

“It hasn’t been,” she forces herself to admit. “Well? I shall go back and report if that seems to be the case.”

“You know as well as I do neither Philip nor Lizbeth will listen.”

She becomes silent at that. 

“Something bothering you, knight?” quips the fae when she makes her way back over to the chair. 

“You,” Lauren says, planting herself firmly in front of him, who is now smirking again. “Good news, faerie. I’ve decided not to go off with your head in the night.”

“Goodness me, that’s wonderful news,” he croons. She raises a brow. “Well, then?”

“So I’d appreciate it if you stopped doing things like this,” Lauren says, smiling sharply as she kicks away the salt ring he’d subtly rubbed on the floor, lined with mushrooms. A faerie circle. He bares his teeth in response, and they’re slightly canine. 

“Try harder to kill me next time.”

“For you, knight,” he rasps, “always.”

The collar on his neck shines a bright white as he attempts to shift, gritting his teeth as his power quells. Perhaps the spell she’d instructed Tristan to cast earlier had worked. And he, too, seems to realize this, glancing up at her with a simultaneous horror and fascination. 

“You…” His hands shake. “... _bound me,_ like a _dog--”_

“You’re a rogue and I’m a knight. We both have our kingdoms that haven’t served us well. You’ll take this bargain, or I really will undo you in the back of the stables with a knife.” She kneels to his height. “Who cast the curse on you?”

“Like I’d ever tell you that,” he spits, cursing in a language far older than she, older than the forest itself. 

_“I said,”_ she says, urging herself to draw closer, _“who cursed you?”_

He still refuses to speak. And then, suddenly, erupts into laughter. “You’re quite desperate, aren’t you? If I refuse on my end, you’re not going to accomplish a bigger goal, aren’t you? Yes, darling knight. I can see the desperation in your eyes. You’re not the one in control here.”

“How dare--” She holds herself back from punching him. 

“Fine, I’ll humor you, mortal,” the fae drawls, eyes sharply-cut gems in the night. “Propose your bargain. See if that brings you any satisfaction.”

Lauren rakes a hand through her hair. “You can shift, but cannot with any intention to harm me. You will be bound to me - so long as the land of Ardhalis is ruled unfairly, and so is the Seelie Court. That is all. When all is said and done…” She steels herself to speak. “You will be freed.”

“And if that takes decades?”

“It won’t.” She cocks her head. “I’m a rather good huntswoman.”

“That you are,” he muses.

“Lauren.”

“What?”

“My name.” She finally sits across from him. “Lauren.”

“And?”

She makes a berating noise in the back of her throat. He rolls his eyes. 

“Kieran,” he says, finally. “Looking forward to working with you, mortal.”

____

He flies above her, wild and free. When the dove finally comes to rest at her shoulders, it nips at her ear, but she doesn’t bat an eyelash as they make their way into the sacred woods. Kieran eventually settles back into his human form, hands a slight weight on her waist as they ride. 

“People are going to think I have a pet bird at this point,” she says, tossing her head back in annoyance. Her ponytail smacks him in the face, and she grins as he makes a strangled noise. “Which tree?”

“The laurel one in the center,” he says, pointing in the darker part of the woods. “No ash trees. The dryads close in around the healthy ones.” 

If anyone were to see them now - fae and knight working together - from a distance, they would’ve thought Kieran mortal. His wispy, curly black hair hides the most of his pointed ears, and he wears a thick tunic and breeches, her knight strapped to his belt. “What?” He simpers. “Do you doubt me?”

“Fae can’t lie,” she answers, bringing the stallion to a halt. “Which one is Nightshade?”

“She calls herself differently these days,” Kieran says, and that’s all he gets out before a wraith in silk appears before them. She’s inhumanly beautiful, pink hair cascading down to her shoulders, a sharp glint in amber eyes to be found. Like Kieran, her ears are pointed - unlike him, laurel leaves grow in her hair. When she strokes her hand across the tree she calls home, flowers spring up at her touch.

“Little dark one,” croons the dryad. “I haven’t seen you since last millennium.”

“You exaggerate, Belladonna,” Kieran says, mockingly falling into a bow. Lauren refuses, standing her guard. The dryad bares her teeth.

“And with a mortal knight, no less. Come to inspect our part of the woods?”

“They say you know the Seelie King,” Lauren says, all business. She cannot let up pretenses around either of them - the dryad may be a nature spirit, but in this forest, things are deadly as they look and Belladonna is no different. The wind seems to howl in her ears. “Has one of his court cursed Kieran?”

“Cursed?” the dryad asks, a hand over her chest. “Now, is that what they’ve done to him? Heard he was tramping all over this country for a cure. I simply just didn’t know what it was.”

“At the expense of life?”

“Come now, knight,” she purrs. “Are death and life not the opposite sides of the same coin? You’ve taken many of our fallen brothers and sisters. I am the tree and the tree is life. We sense all,” she hisses, and that’s when the woods start to darken, the branches above them extending like bony hands. The dryad’s eyes are now a bright gold, hair flowing down to her ankles. _“You slayed our kind, once. We do not let mortals carry the remains of our sisters.”_

The rowan and ash wood in her breastplate seems to sting as Lauren slams the reins down, Armande going into a fierce gallop as the dryad chases them down the woods.

“You didn’t tell me she was like this!”

“Is it my fault you have damaged Ardhalis more than you’ve healed it?” shoots the faerie. Kieran holds onto her tightly as they ride, but the look in his eyes is burning. “Between us, Lauren - who is the _true killer?”_

“If you were truly looking for a cure, then why enter civilian land and--”

“Are you not _listening?_ I do not kill. The blight does.”

“And I am hardly in the wrong!” she yells, none of them noticing the hill that lies ahead. 

_“You absolute lunatic,”_ he screeches, and that’s when Armande comes to a crashing halt, both of them flying off the horse’s back, tumbling down grassy fields. Lauren lands on her back, spitting out dandelion fluff as Kieran lands beside her, groaning.

“Look at what you’ve gone and done now, knight--”

“Shut up,” she says, flinging grass in his face.

____

  
  


The woods are not the only thing that hates Lauren.

She’s never liked the sea, not at all, and perhaps that’s why the selkies come for her, first. She and Kieran had made camp by the ocean cliffs, just a couple towns down from where the Seelie Court is rumored to have an entrance, and that’s when they come for her, slippery skins and all. Lauren rams her sword into the sand, but it doesn’t hold as it slips from her fingers, a black seal’s maw closing over her foot as it drags her down into the waves. For a second, all is nothing - nothing but saltwater up to her ears, and then midnight.

Her armor is still intact. She--

\--is not drowning, because somehow, a seal darker than any shadow or night has come for her, wrestling her onto the ground. It’s only when she manages to get a coherent word out that the faerie speaks.

“You’re half-selkie,” she rasps, coughing out salt.

“Never liked the sea much,” he mutters, shaking out a hand, “but for saving useless knights, it’s useful.”

“Why?” she asks, and they both fall silent as the tide recedes. They both occupy a higher cliff, she realizes, Armande fast asleep. “If I died, the binding would break. Why?”

He stares her down.

_You absolute lunatic._

“Nature doesn’t seem to like you.”

Lauren cradles her sword in her hands. “I am the blade of the Aevasthers. I don’t always kill, but when I do, it is in their name.”

“That’s done more harm than good.”

“I realize that.” She sheathes the weapon. “So, then. Why save a terrible knight?”

His mouth twitches at the admission, but he crosses his arms. Kieran’s human form is dry, she remarks, unlike hers, which is still wet, even in front of the fire they’ve made, her long hair wringing out between her shoulderblades. “Perhaps I need said terrible knight if I don’t want to be left alone with no answers.”

“Sinclair.”

“What?”

“My last name.” This time, she doesn’t look away from those inhumanly blue eyes. “Sinclair.”

He’s silent for a while. But he doesn’t fling curses her way, or rip the choker off, or use any enchantments on her. Eventually, he speaks. “The king. The king of the Unseelie Court deemed me...unfavorable. Too much of a nuisance in the more cutthroat courts. So I was given the power of death. Except,” he amends, touching a small peony flower, watching it wilt, “I could only grow one thing.”

A hyacinth blooms in its place.

“Did you favor them?” she murmurs.

Kieran twirls the purple flower in his hands. “I favored _life_ far too much.”

____

  
  


The Seelie Court is nothing like Lauren envisioned. 

It also seems like the universe has a penchant for capturing either one of them wherever they go, because the second she steps foot into the throne room - a wide-open clearing that’s practically a lauded bower with lush flora all around, petals scattered on the ground - the King recognizes Kieran on sight, and has him chained.

She unsheaths her sword as one of the court Folk step forward. “You have brought a traitor home, mortal knight. You have no right to cross into these lands.”

“I am not the traitor,” she tosses back. “Your leader has sent his own kind, along with a curse, to worsen our lands. If anything, I am here on business.”

“Business,” he sneers. “And what business would that be? He is ours,” he says. “The Hunt will...do of him favorably.”

The collar around Kieran’s neck glows white once more - but she realizes too late it isn’t out of anger for her; the anger for those around him. He looks pained as the shackles dig into his wrists, bruises around his upper temple and cheek. Fury builds in her; fury she didn’t know she had. In one swift motion, she raises her sword, pointing the silver directly at the king. He doesn’t bat an eyelash, gold crown gleaming, matching the attire and glittering decor on his form. 

“My life is so inconsequential, isn’t it?” she sneers. “I’ve hurt your kind. I’ve killed your kind. I can do it again.”

They hiss around her, the pixies. But she stands strong. “First blood. Your king will have no qualms dueling a foolish mortal woman, will he not?”

“You dare--”

“Let her,” the King says blithely, unsheathing a rapier. “Let the duel commence, then. And our court - _our_ people - will deal with the traitor.”

Arrogant as the Folk may be, they are not braggarts. She barely hears Kieran’s cry for her not to risk death as he rams his blade into hers, before the ten paces she is normally given in a duel. But this is no ordinary duel. Fighting the king is like fighting the wind - every time she parries, ducks, blows - he is ten times faster, faster than her mortal blood can move. Lauren slams into a trellis of vines that wind around her ankles, cutting at the ivy as she rolls over to avoid the king’s blow. He slashes through her armor - only a cut, no blood.

“Slow.”

“You’re rather talkative,” she growls, getting into stance again.

_I’m the damn Tiger’s Bane._

_If I can’t take this man down--_

The realization hits.

_I don’t have to._

He rams his sword into her chest as she slices upward, a cut appearing on his flawless skin. The scream Kieran lets out is guttural, as she falls to the floor, coughing out crimson, a hand over her wound.

Technically, and by all rights, she has won the duel. And broken the curse - this much she knows, as a bright beam of light radiates throughout the hall. The dove comes again this time, landing on her face, then a man above her, cradling her face, the wound in her chest. He grits his teeth, the flush clear in his eyes.

“Lunatic knight,” Kieran hisses.

“Removed your curse,” she rasps out. The rest of the court has fallen. Her eyes are falling shut.

“Don’t you dare.” He lifts her head, eyes still the bluest thing she’s ever seen in her life. “Don’t you dare, mortal. Hold on.” A sudden pressure wraps around her waist. “Hold on.”

“What--”

His lips slot over hers as the most excruciating pain she’s ever known coarses through her veins. But he holds her throughout it all, as the land works its magic, flower sprouting, cracking the ground as they bloom, in ever color and every shade she’s ever known. Plumage before her eyes - then fur - everything, as his life force ebbs into hers, as she shares her life with him, one and the same, binding them together in something deeper than a contract.

_“Renai,”_ she rasps, and the spell is complete. When she blinks away the fog in her head, her hand goes up to stroke Kieran’s hair. His ears aren’t pointed. 

It makes her shoot up, but she winces as the newly-healed chest wound throbs. “Careful, knight.”

“You--” She looks him up and down. “You’re not--”

“I shared my life force. It wasn’t for naught, Lauren,” he says, before she can speak again. “I’ve been a nature spirit for ages. When you see decade after decade crumble beneath you, it’s rather futile.”

“So then--” She doesn’t want to touch her eyes. “Half.”

“We’re both half.” He grins, and this time, she returns it. “See, the thing is, darling - I’m not very good at letting things _go.”_

____

The fall comes eventually. 

Ardhalis doesn’t have to know that a general, a falconeer, and two half-fae are at the helm of it. But when the crown lands in Will’s lap, Stefan nearly rolls into his grave when his remaining son snaps it in half and installs a new constitution at his own behest - with Kym by his side. At the end of it all, the revolution happens against the backdrop of a garden in the remains of the castle grounds, wherein she finds a certain someone growing hyacinths.

“Thought you lost me, knight?” Kieran quips, as she kisses him briefly. Honey and roses.

“Oh, I know I didn’t,” she says, winding her arms around his neck, under a sunrise. “I told you before, didn’t I? I’m a very good huntswoman.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Lir_ \- the Welsh/Celtic name for ‘sea.’
> 
>  _Cachiad_ \- one of many, many Welsh curses.
> 
>  _Ystyriwch eich diwedd, marwol! Derbyn gras heb derfynau_ \- Actually a Welsh translation of a couple lines from The Book of Dawn and Dusk from Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, the video game. Roughly translates to “Consider your end, mortal! Accept grace without limits.” _Gewf_ is actually an Elvish curse from J.R.R Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings series.
> 
> A geas is a vow; in Celtic fae culture, faeries would often try to impose their will on mortal subjects. Obviously, this did not work on Lauren, who had brought along several charms to ward off enchantment. I would like to think her lie-detecting ability in this universe would extend to a sort of protection against the Fair Folk’s untruths and cunning tricks.
> 
>  _Cariad_ \- ‘Darling’ or ‘Sweetheart’ in Welsh.
> 
> I did way too much research on Old French for a fic that’s roughly 6k long, even though I know some of the modern language. But: Tristan’s cantrips or spells are combinations of langue d’oc - old French, or the Occitane dialect, or modern French altogether. 
> 
> Selkies are shapeshifting beings able to shift from seal to human with the help of a sealskin. As Kieran is half-selkie, he does not need a skin.
> 
> (And as an ending note: I literally wasn’t planning on writing this. Again. What do you know. My brain really does have worms.)


End file.
